The World As We Know It
by MizJoely
Summary: Vamp!Lock multichap fic. Sherlolly. The Vampires took over and Humans are mostly slaves. But some Vampires think things should be different...not necessarily the way it was before, but something more balanced and logical. Vamp!Sherlock and Human Molly are forced together, but perhaps together is where they can make a difference.
1. Prelude to a New World

_A/N: Yes, yes, I know. I owe chapters on other stories, blah, blah, blah. When the vamp!bunnies strike, I am helpless under their command. This is a setup chapter to give an overview of the world I'm in the process of creating. Enjoy! Review! Happy New Year to You!_

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**Prelude to a New World**

It shouldn't have been possible for so small a number to suddenly be ruling the world, but the Vampires had been smart...and patient. They'd spent the better part of the 20th century carefully setting things up for what would be known as the Great Takeover, with the final push coming during the decade between 1990 and the year 2000.

Vampires were by nature long-term planners. Slowly but surely they began Turning rich and powerful families, so that by the time they were poised for their eventual takeover of the world they'd nearly doubled their numbers.

When 1990 was less than twenty-four hours old, the Vampires moved out of stealth mode and began Turning those they deemed most useful to their cause in unprecedented numbers: heads of state and media moguls, wealthy and influential celebrities and CEOs, generals and weapons dealers, over the course of that decade. Even after swelling their ranks with these mass Turnings, they still only numbered in the low millions. Not a huge portion of the population in a world of six billion, but enough to rule. Enough for the have-nots to suddenly find themselves members of a slave race, used as servants and (mostly) unwilling blood donors to the elite, their population strictly, some would say ruthlessly, controlled via means of enforced sterilization for those deemed less than useful in the new world order, and enforced birth control of a more temporary nature for those who would eventually be permitted to parent the next generation of slaves and potential Turned.

The takeover itself was relatively peaceful, starting as it did from the top; the immediate aftermath, however, proved to be a horrific affair, with wars, famine, pestilence, all being wielded by the world's new Vampire masters as tools to reduce the mortal population to something they deemed manageable.

During the course of that chaotic decade, the Vampires exerted many methods of population control in an effort to further reduce the unruly masses of humanity into something they deemed manageable. The chronically ill, the elderly, the infirm, anyone dependent in any way on medication to keep them alive or mentally stable were exterminated with a ruthlessness and even enthusiasm to rival anything the Nazis or Soviets had managed. Students at university level were divided into "useful" and "not" categories. The useful (medical students, science majors, education majors) were allowed to continue their studies. The others (theater majors, soft science majors and the like) were sent to Blood Reservations, which were in the process of being established all over the world for much the same purpose that cattle were herded to the stockyards.

People resisted all this, of course. Students rose up from both groups and were cut down with equal disdain. The military was chaos for a while, with the common soldiers divided almost equally amongst those willing to fight the Vampires and those more concerned with protecting their families or their own selves by siding with what they perceived – correctly, as it turned out – to be the winning side.

By the end of the first decade following the Great Takeover, humanity had lost more than a third of its population, and a "new normal" had uneasily settled into place.

Most children under the age of ten were separated from their parents, to be raised in what amounted to 1984-esque brainwashing and indoctrination centers, where they were taught that the world had been nothing but chaos and desperation before the Great Takeover. That everything was much better once humanity learned its place. Safer. Cleaner. Well-ordered.

Oh, and that their sacred duty was to provide blood for the Masters. Any Master. On demand – unless, of course, they were Marked as belonging to a particular Vampire or their House. And that their full and enthusiastic cooperation would lead to a long life – possibly even to being Turned, if they proved worthy of such an honor – whereas defiance led only to pain and death.

Most children over the age of ten were deemed too old to be properly raised to the new realities of the world and were separated from their parents and forced onto the same reservations as the college students. To the majority of their Vampire masters, their only usefulness ran through their veins.

Few of those children lived to reach the age of eighteen. Intelligence and physical fitness were the only criteria that might spare such a child; if a Master deemed them valuable – and docile – enough, they were brought into a Vampire household and Marked. Any rebelliousness that ensued was punished in only one way: by their immediate death.

There were other exceptions, of course. Children whose parents held valuable skills, who could bargain for their offspring's lives by offering their full and unequivocal cooperation.

Molly Hooper was eleven when the Great Takeover began. Her parents were biochemists, deemed important enough that her life was offered in return for their loyalty to the new Vampire overlords. She was their only child. They were terrified for her life. Of course they cooperated. What loving parent wouldn't?

As a result, she found herself one of the few children of her age allowed to remain with her parents, not shuffled off to a reeducation center or forced into a Blood Reservation. Ten years later, she considered herself lucky to be alive at all. She considered herself even luckier to not be pretty enough to catch the eye of one of the Masters, to be Marked and forced into slavery of a different kind.

As it turned out, the romance novel version of Vampires her mother had once been fond of reading was closest to the truth; they were ruthless killers, yes, Undead in the sense that one had to actually die and rise up again to become a Vampire, but still capable of – and quite interested in – having sex.

No, Molly Hooper was grateful she didn't end up in a Blood Brothel or the mistress of a Vampire who would discard her as soon as another beautiful face caught his eye, or placed in a harem some of the most powerful kept, a stable of women to provide blood and sex and sometimes allowed to give birth to the half-Human, half-Vampire crossbreeds that held their own peculiar status in the new world order – not slaves, not Masters, capable of moving about in the daylight and mostly acting as a sort of warrior/police class, keeping their Vampire forbears safe from the occasional attempt at an uprising.

Because humanity was down, but it never counted itself out. Not even under these horrific circumstances; despots and tyrants had arisen time and again, and time and again people had risen up against them. This time, many of them determined, would be no different.

Especially since there were actually members of the so-called "Master Race" of Vampires who sided with them.

Most importantly, the younger brother of one of the most powerful Turned in London.

Sherlock Holmes.


	2. A Life Turned Upside Down

_A/N: Wow! Thanks to everyone for all the fantastic and encouraging reviews! Here is chapter 2, hope you enjoy the introduction of Molly Hooper!_

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Molly Hooper wasn't brave - or stupid - enough to join any kind of a rebellious movement, although she was certainly aware they existed. As someone whose parents had been branded collaborators by those who savagely resented their new place in the world, she was never going to be deemed trustworthy enough for any rebel to approach her for assistance, no matter what position she held.

Because of this, knowing what kind of persecution she would face as the child of collaborators, her parents altered her birth records, making it seem as if she were born two years later than she actually was. To the Human world, Molly Elizabeth Hooper was 30 years old, rather than 32.

Children of collaborators born before the Great Takeover tended to die mysterious, Human-caused, deaths within days of being identified as such. The fact that they were as much victims as anyone else didn't seem to matter to the more fanatical Vamp-haters. Molly could hardly fault them; most of these executioners had lost so many friends and family to their new Masters that they'd basically gone crazy with grief.

Still, it didn't mean she intended to ever become a victim of her own kind. As long as it didn't impact the Vampire world, the imposed order, Humans could do whatever they liked to one another; there were enough of them left alive, after all, for the Masters to feed on until the end of time.

Because of her parents' foresight, she survived the dangers of being born to collaborators and was well aware of the dangers life would continue to throw at her even without that stigma hanging over her head. She had a flat of her own, which she'd inherited after they'd both died, and a career as a pathologist at St. Bart's hospital. Because even with Vampires in charge of things, there were still police forces for the Humans, still crimes to be solved, murders and suicides to be determined. If anything, the Vampires were even more obsessed with bureaucracy and paperwork and the need for answers than the Humans they now ruled.

By the year 2011, Molly's life had settled into a pattern that seemed unlikely to change: working quietly in the morgue at St. Bart's, living even more quietly in her flat less than a mile away, with her cat Toby for company (pets were allowed, although organized religion and a myriad of other comforts both physical and emotional had been banned – no Humans could wear any type of perfume or cologne or scented soap or deodorant, for example, as it masked their natural scents, although shampoo and conditioners could still be scented, for some unknown reason) and the remote possibility of finding someone to share her life with.

She was actually musing on the topic of religion as she worked on the body in front of her on the day her life was so dramatically altered, wondering (not for the first time) why religion was banned when religious objects, as it turned out, had absolutely no effect on Vampires unless made of silver (to which they had some very serious allergies).

That was the day Mycroft Holmes swept into her morgue and completely upended her quiet, uneventful life.

VV VV VV VV VV VV VV

Molly was deep in an autopsy of a man who appeared to have been the victim of a rogue Vampire attack. With their near-obsession with order, the Masters – mostly via their half-Human offspring – policed themselves almost as ruthlessly as they did their Human slaves. It didn't happen often, since they were so incredibly picky when it came to who they offered near-immortality to, but occasionally a Vampire went, to put it mildly, completely bonkers – killing anyone who crossed their path, not even drinking more than a token amount of blood and therefore, to the rest of the Vampire world's collective mind, needlessly wasting resources and causing excessive restlessness in the Human population, which in turn could set off another round of riots and attempts at insurrection, which had settled into a lull in the last five years or so.

One of the many, many facts about Vampires that had been learned over the course of the 1990s, when they first publically revealed their existence, was that they didn't need to kill to obtain the blood they needed to survive, which made the rogues all the more troubling to other Vampires. They could and occasionally did live off of bagged blood that had been warmed up in, of all things, an ordinary microwave oven. Molly had witnessed that last first hand, when one of the few Vampires that actually deigned to work at the hospital popped by to oversee an autopsy and became a bit peckish.

Vampires held all positions of power, of course; no large institution such as St. Bart's was left to mere Humans to run, thus all administrators were Vampires or crossbreeds. There were even a few surgeons who'd been Turned and preferred to keep up with their skills even though they now regarded their Human patients more as guinea pigs in a scientific experiment than people whose lives were worthy of saving.

Molly knew the protocol when one of the Masters arrived in a room; she was supposed to bow her head and wait for permission to continue what she was doing. Unfortunately for her, she didn't realize who had entered the morgue until after she'd snapped (without looking up from the delicate process of removing the victim's heart): "I'll be with you in a minute, don't get your knickers in a twist!"

In her defense, it had been a long day, filled with one emergency after another; it was an hour past the end of her shift, and for the past half-hour her supervisor, Mike Stamford, had been sticking his head in the door every five minutes to check on her progress. However, even if she'd said Mike's name when she spoke, it wouldn't have mattered to the two Vampires that had entered the room instead of him.

She only recognized her mistake when she found herself seized by the iron hands of the female Vampire. "The Master requests your assistance," she hissed (the woman Molly would soon know as "Lady Anthea"), forcing Molly to turn and face the man she'd just snapped at. "And your apology."

Molly was forced to her knees, eyes wide in sudden terror. God, how could she have screwed up so badly, after spending most of her life making sure she flew under the radar, kept herself scrupulously well behaved and as close to invisible to the Vampires and potential rebels as she could manage? "F-forgive me," she stammered out, lowering her head, heart thundering in her chest as she awaited her fate.

Rogues were put down by their own kind for random, senseless binge-killings, but any Human that defied a Master was fair game. She could find herself out of a job, beaten to within an inch of her life, relegated to a Blood Reservation...

Or killed.

VV VV VV VV VV VV VV

Mycroft studied the woman kneeling before him. She was properly terrified now, where she'd appeared confident and assured – if somewhat harassed and overworked – before realizing her potentially fatal error. Before Anthea reminded her of her place in the new world order.

He'd been Turned, along with his entire family – mother, father, extremely difficult younger brother – in 1940. Although it had been something of a shock to discover that there was a superior race lurking in the shadows – although not, as was once believed, a _supernatural_ race – he believed he had adjusted rather well.

Mummy hadn't, but then, she'd always been a bit too sentimental. She'd walked out into the dawn one Christmas morning and allowed herself to be turned to ash less than six months after V-J Day.

Sherlock had become even more difficult after their mother's suicide, had turned to drugs for a few decades following their Turning, cutting himself off from his remaining family – not that he and Father had ever been close, and he and Mycroft had violently disagreed as to how they should handle their sudden change from Human to Vampire – and sinking into a kind of self-destructive despair that had not, in the end, resulted in him joining their mother. Much to Mycroft's surprise and, although he would never admit it, relief. Sherlock had always had just enough of the Holmes selfishness to keep him from jumping off the edge of whatever metaphorical cliff he happened to be edging toward at any point in his life.

Now, after seven decades of existence as a Vampire, Sherlock seemed to have found some peace within himself. He'd reestablished contact with Mycroft in the 1970s – although, tellingly enough, _not_ with their father Sigerson – and had eventually started a career of sorts, starting in the late 1980s, as part of his camouflage whilst masquerading as Human. He'd then confounded his elder brother by continuing his "consulting detective" work after the Great Takeover, although he'd been forced into an understandable hiatus during the turbulent years immediately following the Great Takeover.

Not that any Vampire needed a "career" as such – Mycroft's own "minor" position in the new British government hardly counted, since Humans desperately needed the order he and his kind had finally imposed on them – but certainly he approved of anything that kept his brother from sinking back into the depths into which he'd descended after their mother's suicide.

However, there were rumors emerging, rumors that his brother's sudden desire to function within society rather than moping about on its fringes had more to do with his belief that Humans had done just fine ruling themselves and didn't need overlords of any kind running their lives, than with any desire to acquiesce to his brother's ongoing requests that he do so.

Thus his arrival at St. Bart's. Sherlock had been granted permission by the Hospital Administrator, an Elder Vampire who'd existed since the end of the Roman Empire, to use the facilities of the morgue and pathology lab to perform experiments and examine corpses in order to assist the Human police with their investigations in his continuing capacity as a Consulting Detective.

Mycroft had come in advance of his brother's arrival in order to review the staff and facilities, and had been confronted by exactly the situation – and person – he'd been seeking for so long. The right woman to help bring his insufferably stubborn brother to heel.

The pathologist was young, no more than her early thirties, still prime reproductive age. He would have her medical history researched, of course. She was also reasonably attractive, although nothing about her hair (brown-shading-to-auburn worn in a sloppy pony-tail), clothing (loose knit top and baggy khakis hiding what he suspected to be a more than adequate figure), or lack of make-up (she really needed to at least wear some kind of lipstick, her lips were much too small without any added color to them) seemed designed to draw the eye of any Human or Vampire male. It was deliberate, of course; she was obviously heterosexual but it didn't take a genius of his caliber to understand why she would want to avoid male notice, since she clearly wasn't the type to want to be brought under the personal protection of a Vampire.

A pity, that, but what Humans wanted had failed to be a concern to Mycroft the night the family's newest housemaid had joined him in his bedroom for what he assumed was to be a simple romp between the sheets – and had turned into that and so, so much more when she'd bitten him and brought him into her world.

No, the pathologist who'd just made such a fundamental error was, in his estimation, perfect for the plan he had in mind for Sherlock.

Mycroft smiled, flashing his fangs although she couldn't see them with her head bowed, shoulders tensed as she awaited her punishment.

"Let her up," he ordered Anthea, who immediately did as instructed. He stepped forward, stopping when he was less than two feet in front of her. His eyes flashed to her identification tag – Dr. Molly Hooper, Type A-B Negative, Certified Disease- and Drug-Free less than a month earlier.

All to the good. "Look at me, Dr. Hooper."

She raised her head, eyes darting nervously up to meet his. She was tiny, no more than five foot three in her flat-soled shoes. Sherlock had always preferred his women petite in his breathing days – at least, when he'd been a teenager, the last time Mycroft was aware of his brother forming any kind of romantic or physical relationship with a woman.

Dr. Hooper seemed as surprised by his use of her title as she was by the calm demeanor he presented to her where she clearly anticipated anger. "My name is Mycroft Holmes, and I am employed in a minor capacity in the government." He gave her a moment to allow his identification of himself to sink in, then continued on a different tack, knowing it would throw her off balance – exactly where he wanted her to be. "You've worked here since you were allowed to graduate medical school, two years now. Your parents are dead but not killed by Vampires, victims of Human violence, leading to your interest in pathology. You own a cat and live less than a mile from this facility."

She openly gaped at him as he recited his litany of facts, none of which he'd researched in advance. His brother could have told her what breed of cat she owned and whether or not she had any siblings, but Mycroft had no interest in discovering more about her beyond the medical information he would have Anthea research.

Bored with the deducing process, he instructed her to remove her lab coat and clean herself up, allowing himself a slight smile as he heard her heartbeat speed up and smelled the sudden increase in her fear. Ah, she expected him to begin the punishment she believed due to her snappish words. He considered reassuring her that she was not about to join the corpse currently resting on her autopsy table, then decided against it. She would be in the proper frame of mind when he delivered her to his brother's flat if she continued to believe she was about to die.

Anthea contacted Dr. Hooper's supervisor to inform him that she was no longer available to finish up the autopsy she'd started, but gave him no further information within Molly's hearing.

The terrified pathologist did as instructed. Mycroft watched impassively as she did her best to control the violent tremors shivering over her body as she placed her soiled lab coat in the laundry hamper, washed her hands and face and combed her hair, then meekly asked permission to retrieve her belongings from her locker. She waited with obvious fear for the answer; if she was told "no" it would be a clear sign that her time on Earth had nearly come to an end.

She showed the expected signs of relief when he nodded his approval. Anthea escorted her to the ladies' locker room, then brought her to Mycroft's car, waiting outside the building for them. He was already seated inside, and indicated she should sit opposite him while Anthea took her usual place next to the Human chauffeur.

Mycroft regarded his newest acquisition expressionlessly. Dr. Hooper, on the other hand, was clearly continuing to fight down her terror as she clutched her purse and jacket to her chest. Her hands were still shaking, and Mycroft was hard-pressed not to bite her; the scent of blood and sweat and sweet, sweet terror would be quite intoxicating to any Vampire.

He, however, hadn't been nicknamed "The Iceman" for nothing. Self-control had become a way of life for him, ironically enough, within days after his death and rebirth.

His brother wouldn't be able – or allowed – to turn this one down. His innate sense of fair play and regrettable attachment to the Human race would see to that.

Especially if Mycroft made it clear that this woman's life was at stake.


	3. A Fraught Meeting

_A/N: Again, many, many thanks for all the lovely and encouraging reviews of this story. Here is the next chapter, featuring the introduction of Sherlock!_

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They arrived at a rather nondescript building on Baker Street; not a posh area, but certainly not as impoverished as many areas of London had become as its population dropped and Humans became too preoccupied with the day-to-day struggle to survive to have time to worry about things like urban blight. The flat Mycroft Holmes brought Molly to was located over a sandwich shop. The address on the door read 221B.

Molly wondered, not for the first time, what exactly was going to happen to her. Her shaking had subsided somewhat during the twenty minute ride to Baker Street, but it started anew as Master Holmes indicated she should follow him up the stairs to the first floor.

He pushed open the door without bothering to knock. Even if he had, Molly doubted he could be heard over the caterwauling of a violin playing something – well, she wasn't sure what kind of music it was, but it definitely wasn't classical.

Her sense of humor temporarily reasserted itself; perhaps this was her punishment, an afternoon spent listening to that ghastly noise?

All humor faded as they entered the flat. It was clearly the home of a Vampire; there were heavy shutters and blackout curtains on the windows, although they were open to allow the night air to waft through the sitting room and kitchen she found herself facing. The kitchen, what little she could see of it, appeared to be in use as a chem lab and storage facility rather than for cooking or eating; the counters and table were piled high with beakers and other scientific paraphernalia that would have piqued her interest in other circumstances.

The musician – if the abuser of the violin could be called such – was standing in front of the window that looked out over Baker Street. He must have seen the limo pull up, must have watched as they filed out of the car – Lady Anthea was behind her, a silent reminder that if she tried to run she wouldn't get very far at all – and made their way to the door of the building.

He also must have heard them coming, because as soon as he turned to face them, his alabaster skin and luminous blue eyes instantly gave him away as a Vampire even if his residence hadn't already prepared Molly for the possibility.

A Vampire, and God help her, the most incredibly handsome man she'd ever laid eyes on. In spite of the precariousness of her situation, Molly spared a moment to wish that she'd freshened her lipstick and removed her bulky cardigan – she wore a much more flattering camisole beneath it – before leaving Bart's.

Then the rest of her brain caught up with her pleasure-center and reminded her in no uncertain terms that she wasn't here to meet a blind date. She was in a Vampire's home, surrounded by three Vampires unless there were more in the other rooms of the flat, awaiting punishment of some kind for an entirely unintentional slight.

The new Vampire was tall and thin with exquisite cheekbones visible even in the dim lighting of the flat, and a mop of curly, dark brown hair, nearly black, that Molly's fingers insisted they needed to run through, _right now, thank you_. His mouth, currently downturned in a slight frown, formed a perfect Cupid's bow like none she'd ever seen before. An eminently kissable mouth, that.

Molly couldn't recall the last time her limbic system had betrayed her like this. Certainly none of the Humans she'd dated – totaling exactly four – had stirred such a reaction in her. It was as if this man (_Vampire_, she had to remember he wasn't just a man, he was a fucking _Vampire_, why was that so hard for her to grasp?) affected her at the most basic, primal level. If he'd crooked his little finger at her she would have gone down on her knees for him right then and there, even with the other two looking on, done anything he asked of her...

Panic washed over her. Some Vampires had a sort of charm or charisma they could turn on and off at will, and used to toy with their victims, make them think they'd fallen in love when it was a purely physical reaction. Was he doing this to her? And if so, why?

He showed no signs that he found her remotely attractive; his eyes had raked over her dismissively before he focused his attention on the two Vampires who'd brought her here. And his eyes were still that cold blue – no sign of the red that colored their irises when physically aroused. So no, it wasn't something _he_ was doing, unless everything she'd been taught and observed about Vampires and sexual interest was untrue.

While her mind and heart were racing, Master Holmes had taken two steps closer to the other Vampire. He glanced at Molly before speaking. "Sherlock," he said, either in introduction – most Vampires, especially if they'd been posh to begin with, had excruciatingly correct manners even when they were about to rip out your throat – or as a prelude to speaking further.

"No," the other man – Vampire – replied as he turned back to the window. He raised his violin as if about to start playing again. Molly had been so distracted by his devastating looks she hadn't even noticed he'd stopped.

"She was disrespectful to me in front of a witness," Master Holmes said before the bow more than rested on the strings.

Sherlock, as Molly supposed the other Vampire's name to be, froze, then looked over his shoulder at Master Holmes with an incredulous expression on his face. "You have got to be fucking kidding me," he snapped, once again looking at Molly as if she were a laboratory specimen. "No, Mycroft," he repeated, more forcefully this time. "You can't..."

"I can and I will," the other Vampire replied, his voice remaining calm and cold. Icy, Molly would say. She remained silent and unmoving, although her fingers had clenched into fists by her side and she'd belatedly remembered to lower her eyes so that all she saw of Sherlock was his black silk pyjama-clad legs and ratty (ratty? A Vampire wearing _ratty_ clothes?) gray slippers. "Shall I rip her throat out or have Anthea do it?"

Molly forgot to breathe, her terror suddenly trebling at those coldly spoken words. Oh God, he was going to kill her...but why, the small (very, very, _very_ small) part of her that could still form a coherent thought wondered, was he acting like it was as much a threat to this other Vampire as it was to her?

Apparently that part of her was much more astute than the panic-stricken rest of her. Her eyes flew up and she recognized a helpless sort of rage in Sherlock's expression, one she'd seen many times before – in a Human's eyes, when some hapless victim found themselves randomly selected to appease a Vampire's sudden peckishness in the halls of the hospital or on the street when she hurried home to her flat.

Like everyone else, she'd learned to turn, not quite a blind eye, but a deliberately unfocused eye on such occurrences. She'd never believed it possible that a Vampire – one of the Masters, rulers of the world – could wear that same look.

"She's got two completely different sets of records as well," the female Vampire volunteered from behind Mycroft, studying her mobile as she spoke, sounding bored. As if none of this mattered, as if Molly's life wasn't on the line. "According to our database she was born in 1979, but according to the Human database, she wasn't born until 1981."

Oh _God_. Molly must have stopped breathing for moment, because suddenly she was gasping for air. It made no difference to the Vampires that there were two sets of records – that was frequently the case for the children of collaborators, a very small attempt to make them feel safe among their own kind, as her own parents had done – but if anyone outside of this room (and still alive in every sense of the word) were to find out, Molly's life could end even if she walked out of this situation unscathed. There were too many Humans who bore an unreasonable hatred toward any child born before the Great Takeover who had been allowed to escape the reservations all other children of that era had been forced into.

Sherlock appeared to understand this as well; his eyes narrowed and he moved into the other Vampire's personal space in order to stare him down. "You wouldn't," he said, his voice, his eyes, his stance all a challenge.

A challenge Master Holmes accepted calmly – and appeared to dismiss. "I would," he affirmed. "You know I would."

Sherlock studied him a moment longer, then abruptly stepped away and turned to face the window, both hands behind his back, clutching the violin and bow almost tightly enough to snap the fragile wood. "Fine," he growled without turning around. "Leave her."

"Her belongings and cat will be delivered tomorrow," Master Holmes said, and two minutes later Molly found herself alone in the flat with Sherlock, wondering what the hell had just happened.

They were moving her belongings – and Toby – here...why? Oh God, had she just been delivered to this Vampire to be his personal slave? That wasn't...it wasn't supposed to work like that. She had a job, she had a life, she'd done her very best to avoid situations that could lead to something like this, worked hard, kept her head down, dressed the opposite of provocatively...yet here she was.

Sherlock turned and raked her with an appraising stare that felt much more intense than his first glancing – and dismissive – look at her. She held still as he deliberately eyed her from head to toe and back again, trying her best to calm her pounding heart and chaotic, panicky thoughts. Hot and cold flashes swept over her and her trembling had increased to the point that her teeth were chattering in her head.

His next words did nothing to calm her. "Remove those hideous clothes," he snapped. "I need to get a proper look at you if I'm to accede to my brother's wishes and save your life."

Brother...the other Vampire was this man's _brother_?

It wasn't important. Not now. The part of her mind that was wholly occupied with self-preservation was chattering at her that a Vampire had just given her an order – and that if she valued her life, she'd damned well get busy stripping off her clothes. However, she couldn't help wondering as she did so how this was going to save her life...and why this particular Vampire would even care whether she lived or died.

She while her chaotic thoughts continued to dash around like a school of panicked herring within her mind, her body was busy doing as she'd been ordered, removing her clothing with shaking hands. She toed off her shoes as she removed her cardigan, trousers, and socks. She was just reaching to pull her lacy blue camisole over her head when she heard Sherlock speak. "Stop," he said, his voice impossibly close – when had he moved?

She looked up without thinking, to see his face only inches away from her own. She sucked in a startled breath at the close-up view of his incredible eyes, which were still lit with the phosphorescent glow all vampires had in low lighting, the shimmer they could mask only in full darkness.

"Your figure is more than passable, much trimmer than your choice of clothing would suggest," he said, his voice low and husky. Molly started to duck her head, but he reached out and grasped her chin in his cool fingers, turning her head to one side and then the other. Examining her features with an intensity that threatened to turn her knees to jelly.

Where had her terror gone? Why was she reacting to him so strongly, when a lifetime of conditioning told her she should be begging for mercy or running for her life? She thought she might faint when his long, cool fingers reached out to grasp her hands, turning them this way and that as he examined them. "You work as a pathologist or doctor...no, definitely a pathologist," he proclaimed, not even bothering to acknowledge the flicker of surprise in her eyes as he continued to speak, deducing her much the same way his brother had back at the morgue, coming to the same – correct – conclusions before he fell abruptly silent.

He released her hands and suddenly leaned closer, breaking eye contact to nuzzle the side of her neck. Scenting her, she supposed; Vampires had much stronger senses of smell than Humans, and breathing in a potential partner's musk was part of their mating ritual.

_Mating ritual. _Oh, God, had she just thought that? Surely she was wrong about this, about what was happening here...

No. Not wrong. That was definitely a tongue she felt sliding along her neck, and lips, and his hands were on her shoulders, pulling her against the firm length of his body. Vampires had cooler body temperatures than Humans; they took about two breaths a minute; their hearts beat at roughly a quarter of the speed of a Human heart; and the blood that flowed through their veins was thicker and darker than Human blood, but it performed the same function, brought about the same result.

Such as the heated erection she felt against her midsection as he slid his hands behind her back and brought his lips to hers for a searing, forceful kiss.

Molly found herself responding enthusiastically; her nipples hardened as they pressed against his body; her hands slid up the smooth expanse of his chest, resting briefly on the back of his neck before raising up to tangle themselves in his hair. The sheer sensuality of the moment threatened to overwhelm her; she gasped and pulled her mouth away from his for a brief moment...

And found herself suddenly alone in the room.

Sherlock had vanished with Vampire speed to who-knew-where, and she had no idea what had just happened – or what she was supposed to do now.


	4. Rock and a Hard Place

This was _not_ supposed to be happening. Sherlock paced the rooftop of 221, staring unseeingly into the darkness that hid very little from a Vampire's view.

He'd worked very hard at keeping people – Humans and Vampires alike – away from him. He'd always believed it kept him safe, kept _them_ safe. Recent circumstances had started to alter that perception on his part; he'd actually formed cordial relationships with the Humans he worked with at New Scotland Yard, most notably Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade and a former Army doctor named John Watson who'd been retained as an on-call coroner working directly for NSY rather than at one of the hospitals.

Unlike the young woman currently occupying his flat – and his thoughts – John went to crime scenes and was, if not entirely at ease around Vampires, he was at least comfortable working with Sherlock now that they'd known each other for almost three years. He even hoped that one day the doctor and the Detective Inspector would trust him enough to let him help with their efforts to overthrow the existing order in favor of something a bit more balanced.

Like himself, they dreamed of the day when Humans and Vampires might find some way to co-exist. After all, Vampires didn't need to drain a Human of their blood to feed, and there were actually many Humans who enjoyed being fed from. And not just the ones who'd been brainwashed into believing it their duty, either.

Then again, there were others who would rather die than allow themselves to be used as a food source for their so-called lords and masters. His 'guest', he suspected, fell squarely in the middle, where most of humanity existed: neither craving the thrill of being bitten nor willing to kill themselves rather than submit.

He blew out an impatient breath, raking his fingers through his hair as his pacing increased in speed. He'd managed to survive as long as he had without taking any sort of slave or mate, and now his brother, in one simple move, had forced him into accepting a woman who was meant to be both.

The question was, what exactly was he going to do about it?

His rock-hard prick told him quite plainly what his body, his transport, wanted from her. Ever since he'd scented her when she'd first been escorted into his flat by his brother and his 'PA', as he preferred to call the woman known only as Anthea, he'd felt an inexplicable pull toward her. He'd seen no details other than the top of her head when she'd exited his brother's black nondescript government car, but even that brief glimpse had stirred...something. Something that had caused him to kiss her only moment earlier.

Well. More than moments, actually; now that he allowed himself to notice the world outside his mind, he realized he'd been on the roof for very nearly a half an hour. Far too long to leave her alone in his flat, wondering about his motives for abandoning her so suddenly. Was she still standing where he'd left her, too terrified to move lest he punish her for doing so?

With an internal curse, he loped back to the iron ladder that allowed access to the roof. Even if she had no desire to become his mate (although her own reactions appeared to mirror his, something to be investigated as soon as feasible), her life was still at stake. If he didn't do as Myrcoft demanded of him, his brother wouldn't hesitate to rip her throat out and leave her body at Sherlock's feet.

That, he vowed, was a fate he'd never allow to befall her.

VV VV VV VV VV VV VV

Wherever he'd vanished to, Sherlock – Master Holmes, she would have to be very careful to use his proper title or else potentially face further punishment – didn't return for half an hour. During that time Molly remained standing in the same place, her clothing piled on the floor, not daring to so much as throw her jacket around her shoulders without permission.

All the while her mind kept chasing itself in circles, wondering alternately why he'd kissed her and why he'd so abruptly pulled away. Especially when it was clear he felt some sort of attraction to her...but why? There was nothing special about her; she wasn't beautiful, not in the conventional sense, certainly not in a way most vampires defined beauty. She'd spent her entire life attempting to be the opposite of the type that normally attracted sexual attention from the Masters, and yet here she was, lusting after one of them herself.

When Sherlock did show up, simply appearing the way Vampires could when they felt like moving at their fastest speed, she cried out in startlement, then bit her lip and hugged her arms to her chest to try and control her renewed shivers. This time they were as much from cold as fear; one of the reasons she'd covered her chest was a futile attempt to keep Master Sherlock from noticing her erect and aching nipples.

He razed her with another one of those appraising glances, head to foot, then reached down and picked up her jacket, tossing it over her shoulders without comment. "Pick up your belongings and come with me," he ordered, turning and stalking toward the hallway at the back of the flat.

Molly did as he ordered, plucking up the courage to ask: "W-where are you taking me? M-master Holmes," she remembered to add. If she was to be a member of his household she had to learn the boundaries of what he would and would not allow.

He whirled as soon as the last words left her lips, glaring at her so harshly that she stumbled to a stop, clutching her clothes and purse to her chest in renewed terror. Her nervous system was going to collapse soon if her emotions kept spiking up and down so severely.

"My name is Sherlock," the Vampire said as he continued to glower at her. "I would prefer to be addressed that way unless," he added with what appeared to be a great deal of reluctance, "we are in the presence of other Vampires. It wouldn't go well for either of us if I allowed any sort of familiarity amongst others of my kind."

His ire – and arousal – seemed to have dampened, although he still didn't appear anywhere close to happy. Molly simply nodded, then resumed following him down the dimly-lit hallway.

He stopped outside a door, pushing it open and indicating that she should look inside. "Bathroom," he said succinctly. "I never use it so it will require a thorough cleaning. I'll set up accounts for you to access so you can purchase whatever it is you'll need. Food, too," he added as an afterthought, frowning. "There isn't any in the flat but I'm sure my housekeeper – her name is Mrs. Hudson, I'll introduce you when she gets back tomorrow – has something downstairs. I'll take a look."

"I'm – not really hungry," Molly ventured, emboldened by his puzzling behavior – and by the memory of the searing kiss they'd shared, the one he was now acting as if it had never happened. He acted and spoke like no other Vampire she'd ever interacted with; most would have a servant showing her around, or simply expect her to learn things on her own with no direction from them.

Sherlock's frown deepened as he trained his disconcerting gaze on her face once more. "Fine," he said curtly, then turned and headed for the door at the end of the hall, which ended at a staircase. He jerked his chin toward it. "I'll have to move some things around, but you'll need a place to store your belongings once they arrive." He hesitated, seemed about to add something, then apparently changed his mind. Instead, he reached for the door opposite the bathroom and jerked it open, indicating that Molly should precede him into the room.

"My bedroom. Ours now, I suppose."

Any hope that his abrupt leave-taking and once-again cool demeanor meant that she was to be spared the humiliation of being forced into a life of sexual slavery (_not that it would be all that difficult a burden to bear with this particular Vampire,_ part of her traitorous mind whispered) died with those indifferently spoken words.

When he fell silent after essentially sealing her fate, Molly forced herself to focus on the room in front of her, shoving her panic and fear and (how was such a thing even possible under these circumstances) desire into the back of her mind. There was no way to slow the pounding of her heart or keep her breaths even and calm, but she tried anyway as she took in what details she could from the meager light spilling in from the hallway.

It was nothing like what she'd imagined a Vampire's bedroom would look – not that she spent a great deal of time doing so, but considering who'd been running the world for more than half her life, she'd have been hard-pressed to avoid thinking about it at all. For one thing, it was small, not much larger than the one in her own flat – former flat, she reminded herself with a pang of near-grief. Oh, not for the flat itself, but for the limited freedom and life it represented. A life no longer her own. At least Sherlock was going to allow her to keep Toby; she'd have to make sure and set up his litter box in the bathroom and keep it scrupulously clean.

Aside from a dresser, a wardrobe, a single chair by the door, and the bed, there didn't appear to be anything else in the room. The wall appeared bare of decorations and there were no rugs on the hardwood floor beneath her feet. The windows featured the ubiquitous heavy metal shutters and blackout curtains – the one thing the myths got right was that Vampires burned to a pile of ashes under the direct rays of the sun – both currently open, as was the window itself, to allow the cool night breeze into the room.

Molly shivered as she felt the wind on her exposed skin, jacket or no jacket, and Sherlock must have noticed because suddenly he was in the room, pulling the window down and slamming it shut. "Get under the covers," he ordered, his voice suddenly rough with some unnamed emotion, eyes glittering eerily blue-gold in the darkness.

Molly obeyed, a lifetime of ingrained obedience to any Vampire's command causing her to drop her belongings onto the floor and scramble beneath the covers before she was fully aware of doing so.

She watched through wary eyes as Sherlock moved away from the window, coming to a stop only when he reached his dresser. He leaned against it and continued to regard her in silence for a few minutes longer before once again speaking, abruptly and without preamble. "My brother thinks I'm still too close to my humanity. He's been trying for years to force me into taking a personal slave, but not just a slave, oh, that isn't enough for Mycroft."

He began to pace, and Molly was surprised to hear bitterness in his voice as the words poured out of him. "Taking a slave, I could easily just use that as a cover, easy enough to fake brutality in public but revert to form once in private. That's why he brought you here – what is your name?" He stopped pacing, his movements having brought him close to the head of the bed and she gazed into the sapphiric glitter of his eyes as he peered into her face.

"M-molly," she replied with a stammer. "Molly Hooper."

"Sherlock Holmes, as you've undoubtedly worked out for yourself by now. Charmed," he replied as he resumed pacing, moving in short, agitated steps from the window to the foot of the bed, past it to the chair by the door and back again. "It's why he brought you here, Molly," he said, repeating his previous words but with what she could only construe as the added courtesy of tacking on her name. "He wants me to use you, to Mark you and undoubtedly get you with child. Visible signs of my ownership," he added, practically spitting out the last word, distaste clear in his voice.

All warmth drained from her face at that thought of being forced to produce offspring that neither parent, it seemed, were interested in producing. Yes, she'd thought about having children someday – but _Human_ children, not half-breed Nosferatu. Even with this Vampire, whom she could still feel her body aching to touch.

While her mind stuttered over the information she'd just been given, Sherlock had continued speaking. Oh, wait, no he was asking her something – oh, God, was she going to have to ask him to repeat himself? As if today hadn't been filled with enough mistakes on her part...

Either Sherlock hadn't actually asked or else he was continuing to behave like the most atypical Vampire she'd ever interacted with, because when he spoke again it was to ask: "What is your reproductive status, Molly?"

"T-temporary birth control implant," she stuttered in response.

Although she didn't see him move, suddenly the side of the bed sagged beneath Sherlock's weight, and she felt as much as saw him peering intently at her. He sighed, and she had the impression he was running his hand through that gorgeous dark hair of his. "Of course you're cleared for eventual procreation," he muttered, sounding resigned. "Mycroft wouldn't have it any other way."

Another sigh came from the darkness, this time close enough for Molly to feel the warmth of his breath on her cheek. "If I know my dear brother – and believe me when I say I know no one better – there will be an appointment set up for you at the nearest fertility clinic within the next few days, during which your general health will be assessed and your birth control implant removed."

Molly couldn't help the shiver that ran over her form at Sherlock's matter-of-fact words; from what she'd seen and experienced of his brother, she wouldn't put any of it past him. He obviously had plans for his younger brother, plans in which she figured prominently; the only question was, why? Why her, and why was Lord Holmes – Mycroft – so determined to make Sherlock do something he so clearly didn't wish to do?

She only realized she'd voiced her questions aloud when Sherlock responded to her words. "Well reasoned, Molly. At least Mycroft picked a woman of acceptable intelligence as well as acceptable attractiveness."

Molly blinked; had Sherlock just called her attractive? And intelligent?

She couldn't help blushing, partly in embarrassment and partly out of some weird sense of pride. Again, the thought that Sherlock might somehow be manipulating or at least affecting her emotional state flitted through her mind. Again, she rejected it. If he could control her that well she'd already have done whatever it was he wanted her to do.

Or rather, whatever his _brother_ wanted her to do. Which Sherlock had already spelled out.

Which meant... "Sherlock?" she ventured to ask as he made no move to either leave her be or...well, _not_ leave her be.

Her response came in the form of another sigh as Sherlock leaned his head down and pressed his forehead against hers. "Yes, Molly, I am going to do as my brother wants, as I have no wish to be the cause of your death. And yes, I said you were attractive and intelligent and I meant both compliments. Although I am indeed doing this against my will, I am also attracted enough to you that it will not be as much of a chore as it might have been otherwise." She felt rather than saw the smile as he brushed his lips against her cheek and added: "And I have no doubts as to your attraction to me, since you've smelled of more want than fear ever since I kissed you."

She had no response for that, knowing it to be true, feeling a thrill course through her as he continued to ghost his lips over the soft flesh of her face and neck, ending at her throat, grazing it with his teeth. Teeth which now included fangs that had elongated into feeding mode, although she suspected he had no need for nourishment at the moment.

No, he'd said his brother wanted him to Mark her. And in order to save her life, he was going to do just that.

She couldn't decide whether the idea of being so Marked by Sherlock Holmes was more terrifying – or more arousing.


	5. Seduction of the Innocent

**Warnings for Sex and Biting and Really Bloody, Painful Biting at the end (aka 'Marking').**

_A/N: This story is going to be much darker than either of my previous Vamp!lock one shots, in case you didn't already get that. Marking is not some delicate little nibble on the neck, so consider yourselves warned. But everything leading up to that moment is just pure, smutty goodness, LOL._

* * *

Molly was frightened; he could practically taste the fear oozing from her pores as he scraped just the tips of his fangs across her throat, not enough to draw blood but enough to make his intentions clear. Her pulse was throbbing, the blood speeding through her veins, but overriding the fear, even now, was the heady scent of her arousal. If he brushed his fingers across her core, he found himself thinking, would she already be wet for him? His nostrils flared a bit as he scented her, and he smiled as her musk wafted upwards. Oh yes, she would be more than ready for him when the time came to sink his cock deep, deep inside her. She would moan and gasp his name as he sank his fangs into her neck and pressed his fingers into her, then moan even louder when he licked the taste of her sex off his fingers, mixing it with her blood in a cocktail he knew from past experience could be as heady as any Human drug he'd ever sampled.

It was time, he decided, to stop thinking about what he wanted to do to this woman, and to simply...do it.

He'd grasped her arms at some point, although he couldn't say for sure when he'd done so, and pulled her half onto his lap as he dragged his tongue across her throat, pausing where her pulse beat the strongest. "I'm going to bite you, Molly," he murmured against her throat, feeling a shiver go over her body as he spoke. But she wasn't fighting him, wasn't resisting at all; in fact, there was a thrumming eagerness he felt in every muscle, as if she were fighting the urge to do something. But not, he knew, to push him away. "You can touch me, you know," he added, pulling his face up from her neck and allowing her to see his fangs fully extended. The pale light streaming through his window should ensure she could see the whiteness against his lips.

She raised one hand and rested it on his shoulder, the other hovering uncertainly in the air as she hesitated. When she met his eyes and bit her lip nervously, he understood what it was she wanted to do – but was too afraid to ask. He gently reached out and took her wrist in one hand, then brought it closer to his mouth. With his other hand he folded her fingers so that she was making the victory sign, then pressed those two fingers against his fangs, allowing her to touch them as she so obviously wanted to.

A slight intake of breath was the only sound she made as the tips of her fingers made contact with the ivory points, and he watched as her eyes widened and then narrowed in concentration. She leaned forward a bit, as if she'd never seen a pair of fangs up close before – which, most likely, she never had, if the pristine condition of her lovely neck was anything to go by.

It was rare, these days, to see a Human – especially an attractive Human female such as Molly – without so much as a single tiny scar marring their flesh. He wondered if the rest of her body was so untouched, and felt himself hardening further at the thought of being the first to pierce her flesh, to bite her and drink in her blood.

A slight gasp from her lips told him that his eyes had flooded with blood as his arousal increased, coloring the lenses, deepening the natural blue-green of his irises, as he knew from catching sight of his reflection in the past, to a dark purple. Molly pulled her fingers away from his mouth and reached up to tentatively stroke them through his hair, rubbing gently at his scalp and pulling a surprised murmur of approval from him. She grew bolder as he remained passive in her grasp, running her fingers over his shoulders and down his chest. He moaned a bit as her palms scraped over his nipples – they'd always been far too sensitive – and even louder as she allowed her hands to drift to his crotch and the hot bulge of his erection.

At that point he was as incapable of remaining unmoving as he was of existing on anything but blood; he heard her gasp again as he lowered his mouth to hers for a forceful, demanding kiss. The tips of his fangs pierced her tongue as it darted past his lips; the sweet taste of her blood filled his mouth, and all ability to reason, to think clearly, was entirely lost. He pulled himself off her only long enough to shed himself of his clothing, nimble fingers reaching out to undo the front-clasp on her brassiere after she'd tugged her camisole over her head. He tossed both articles of clothing to the floor before once again covering her body with his, groaning at the feel of her taut nipples against the cool flesh of his chest.

Within seconds he'd sunk his fangs into her throat and was greedily sucking down her hot, sweet blood.

VV VV VV VV VV VV VV

When Molly's fingers began exploring Sherlock's lean, muscular frame, she felt her fear sliding from her, and her curiosity about the Vampire who was about to Mark and claim her for his own increasing. Not simply scientific curiosity, either, although she tried at first to tell herself that was all it was; a chance for her to study one of the 'Masters' up close, in an intimate fashion. To explore the differences and similarities there might be between Humans and Vampires, something the pathologist in her was very interested in, although she'd never allowed herself to indulge such an interest in the past.

No, that would be far too dangerous; as soon as anyone, Human or Vampire, discovered that she was researching anything as forbidden as Vampire biology, she would become a person of interest herself, marked by one side as a possible recruit to a dangerous – and ultimately futile – cause, or by the other as a threat to be eliminated.

The irony, of course, was that she'd so carefully avoided giving any appearance of sympathy to either side, yet had landed in her present position in spite of that care. A wry smile curved her lips as she considered her mind's choice of words; her right hand was still pressed against Sherlock's chest while her left had moved downward, coming to rest on the hard bulge of his erection, which – along with his red-flooded eyes – was a very tangible sign that he wasn't simply giving lip service to his brother's demands. What that meant, Molly wasn't entirely sure. Nor was she sure she wanted to know.

Sherlock gave a groan before his lips suddenly claimed hers, stilling her thoughts, and in spite of the jab of pain she felt when his fangs pierced the tip of her tongue as she thoughtlessly plunged it into his mouth, she finally acknowledged that there was nothing scientific about her curiosity at all. This interaction was hardly an experiment, and although the two of them had been coerced into this relationship, it was, indeed, a relationship. One she was going to be entangled in for the remainder of her days.

As Sherlock began shedding his clothing – as she all-too-eagerly joined him – she found herself somewhat troubled by the fact that such a stark reality...did not trouble her. Not at this moment, anyway, when Sherlock's mouth withdrew from hers only long enough for him to dislodge his fangs, and then eagerly lap his tongue against hers, taking in her blood, swallowing it down before he finally moved his mouth to the side of her neck.

A shiver went over her frame, and she could feel her nipples puckering as they rubbed up against the cooler flesh of his smooth, muscular chest. She pictured his mouth suckling the tight nubs, and a groan of want escaped her before she could stop it, her hands moving to clutch at his arms as he pressed a series of open-mouthed kisses along the length of her carotid artery.

When she he drew his head back, eyes blazing with sapphire and gold highlights even through the redness, she had barely enough time to recognize what was happening before he'd darted his head forward and embedded his fangs in her throat.

The pain lasted less than an eyeblink; she'd heard it speculated (but never proven) that Vampire saliva contained some form of topical anesthetic as well as a soporific, an evolutionary advantage to keep prey immobilized after being bitten. The intensely sexual response many had to the bites were rumored to be either the same sort of biochemical interaction (if the Vampire was aroused as well as the victim/donor, it was said to be even more intense) or some kind of psychic ability, similar to the ones many older Vampires eventually manifested.

Either way, Molly could now personally attest to just how fucking incredible it felt to be bitten by a Vampire that was sexually aroused. It was as if his mouth were attached to her cunt instead of her throat; she could feel the growing dampness between her legs, the rising rippling in her abdomen that usually signaled the onset of orgasm, and before she knew it she was gasping and clutching him closer, begging him not to stop as she wreathed her legs around his waist and ground her center against his heated shaft.

VV VV VV VV VV VV VV

Self awareness returned to Sherlock in a rush as soon as he felt Molly's soft, warm body go rigid beneath his. The scent of her sex became overpowering as she orgasmed, her legs clamping around his body, and he pulled his mouth away from her throat in order to gaze down at her in a mixture of smug satisfaction that was purely male (_he'd_ done this to her, turned her into an incoherent mess just by drinking her blood) and amazement that he'd had so powerful an effect on her. Especially considering the fact that he'd deliberately refrained from using any of the usual Vampiric lures on her. No, whatever this was between the two of them – and yes, he reluctantly concluded, it was affecting him as well – had nothing to do with anything as simple or straightforward as pheromones or emotional manipulation or even lust.

Whatever it was, however, would have to be investigated when he had two functioning brain cells to rub together. Preferably after he'd given her another orgasm, this one in the more traditional manner. "Molly, I need to be inside you," he growled, raising his body up just enough to reach down between them and take himself in hand. "I know you're ready for me," he said, pressing the head of his cock against her moisture-slicked entrance. "I know you want me as much as I want you. Say it, Molly," he commanded, not sure why he needed to hear it but knowing that he would only continue if she told him.

"I want you," she whimpered obediently, thrusting her hips upward so that his cock once again rubbed against her wetness. "Please, Sherlock..."

He was inside her as soon as the syllables forming his name left her lips, gliding smoothly, deeply, with no false starts or hesitations. Her internal muscles gripped him tightly, but they were a good fit – a perfect fit, he concluded. As if they were made solely for one another.

He would consider the implications of that – and of everything else that had happened so far this evening – later. Right now he was far too busy turning Molly Hooper into a moaning, writhing mess, waiting until she was crying out with her second climax before once again sinking his fangs into her throat.

Her reaction to his bite was extremely gratifying; even as he continued to piston his hips, driving his prick deep, deep inside her while his mouth worked her throat, she cried out his name, fingernails digging wildly into his scalp as her cresting orgasm seemed to intensify and continue far longer than such usually did.

_Now_, some deeply primal part of him hissed within his mind, through the haze of his own impending orgasm. _Mark her, make her yours. _

_NOW._

Molly cried out again as Sherlock snarled her name, withdrawing his fangs only to dig them back into her throat, mindless in the mutual throes of passion and bloodlust as his orgasm finally overtook him. This time, however, her cries were of pain, as he ripped at her throat, not content to simply pierce her flesh, overwhelmed by the instincts their fierce coupling had raised within him, instincts he'd never allowed himself to give into ever before. He'd forgotten how raw and primal Marking someone was; the thin veneer of civilization fell away in response to base needs, and the predator within Sherlock exulted at the taste of Molly's flesh between his teeth, the feel of her blood not only in his mouth but dribbling down his chin and smearing itself over their joined torsos.

Her hands had gone from pulling him closer to futilely attempting to tug his head away from her throat, but he ignored her movements as he ignored her cries of pain and pleas for him to stop. He'd warned her, told her he was going to do as Mycroft insisted and Mark her as his own, and right now there was no way he could stop himself even if he tried. His inner predator, the dark, savage part of his nature that he'd worked so hard to suppress, had taken control, and he was powerless to stop it.

Only when Molly fell silent and slumped in his hold did he finally release her, pulling his head up and rubbing his hand across his chin, absently licking the blood from his fingers as he stared down at her unconscious form. He gently settled her down so that her head rested on his now-bloodstained pillow, and he peered down at her throat as reason returned to his mind.

He'd done it. He'd Marked her, made her his. The wound on her neck would take weeks to heal, even if antibiotic creams could be applied. Which, in order to make the Mark permanent, couldn't happen. Although his first thought upon regaining control of his mind was to bandage her, staunch the bleeding, he held off, knowing that it had to bleed long enough for his saliva, with its healing properties, to be cleared from the gash he'd opened on her neck.

He felt sick as he stared down at her, repulsed by what he'd done. Even knowing it was the only way to save her life – that his brother would ruthlessly kill her if Sherlock didn't Mark her in this manner – didn't help, and never would. He wondered how she would feel once she woke up; would she hate him, fear him, be disgusted and horrified by his actions?

He couldn't blame her if she did; after all, he loathed this aspect of his nature, had actively avoided it not only because of the emotional connection Marking could sometimes forge, but also because it symbolized what he saw as the worst aspects of vampirism: violence and the compulsion to bind someone into virtual slavery, to use them against their will, doing physical damage to the body and scarring the mind and heart as well as the body. All things he abhorred and yet here he was, proving himself just as much a slave to his nature as anyone who'd ever been Turned.

The only positives were that Molly would, indeed, be free of the threat Mycroft had levied against her, and that other Vampires would be warned away, knowing that she belonged to a member of a powerful clan. It would no doubt be similar to the Marks Mycroft had left on his slaves – the man had a virtual harem, his brother remembered in disgust. In spite of what he was, Sherlock had always been disdainful of the supernatural, rightly, to his mind, relegating most of it to the realm of superstition, but there were certain aspects of it that could not be ignored.

Such as the way the Mark would bear his initials, in monogram form, once it had finished forming. That was no accident of nature, no logical result of the pattern his fangs had torn into Molly's throat. No, the reddened flesh would bear the white letters "SVH" – Sherlock Vernet Holmes – for the rest of her life.

With a vague feeling of surprise, he realized that he hoped she wouldn't hate him for that same length of time.


End file.
